Fiction
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My love, where you sing your cries on an empire of your Hellish loneliness. How can the churches believe you? How can your smile ever be parted, from you? I will bleed along with you, my love. Treasure yourself, for the funeral cannot be far off. I will kiss your hand, for as long as…
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How often does a memory last, wrapped in the thorny shrub of one’s heart? I’ve often twisted myself on the realization that love is something that can be forgotten. Though, for how was my youth, it was only naivety that swung me in that direction. Love is never a rope traded, for a heart on…
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A: You must comprehend where his hatred originated, his anger originated, for it was not something he ever welcomed with open arms. B: How then, did it occur in his heart, when before, he was loving? A: To imagine a man, who once had a heart full of love. To understand him, to have paid…
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To be the victim, or to create victims, in a world where tears cannot let go without running far. I held her hand to still her pace from the shore. I held her waist, to continue on the dance through life. I twisted my face, so that pain would be mimicked. I bled my mind…
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“A lie is imagination, burning an image into sight only ever convincing. The truth, however, is something that wallops you so hard, you will find it shocking.” – Modern Romanticism How far can a writer take creativity, when it comes to a fact? To comprehend creativity, itself, as unlimited in the human imagination, will make…
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Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It…
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She holds a smile in her hands, while filming the ocean’s sounds with her heart. Sounds that return to her, upon when the waters lick the shoreline. Sounds that matter only to a world that never responded quick enough, upon when sickness took her beloved. A world that only gave a whisper from a dying…
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How much bloodCan erase the letters on these worn pages?I have become something elseTo the bitternessOf one heart, written in the soil,Of one droplet of crimson,Fed to my mouth.He glistens on the cross,He stays there,Sheltering his own eyes with the sun,Finding a place where I cannot runTo make my home. Upon my knees,Stranded in senseless…
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“To him, of her, he could not call what he’s seen as imperfections. He could not, for he viewed with an eye that held love to its sight. Almighty in its department, love perfected those imperfections, and they were no longer able to become broken.” – Modern Romanticism
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How is pain felt? Is it not like the storm gathered in its heaviest gray? Would the gray remain for long, before letting loose what it has carried, being of its rain? Are we not the same in what we dispassionately yearn to be rid of? It is that brief moment of logic where we…
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Love is that emotion that threads the universe to the stars. He walks with the gait of someone who comprehends something that another wouldn’t. Love that is left not felt, is what he gathers in arms so heavy. Truly the treasured emotion he finds to be comforting, can always ease the darkness in anyone, as…
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Expectations increase with each new building block to the structure, so that the whole does not collapse. This is true when an author, or even a musician to a series of albums, or a screenwriter, a playwright, a game developing company, and others, consider how they are going to top their last piece. The entire…
Modern Romanticism 